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Docking

At Sacandaga lake, the murky water a screen / that shields the town. The mucky bottom coats my toes / as I anchor the dock on the shore, pushing poles / through the film of sunscreen on the surface.

Poetry by Joe Volpe

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Fault

I want to be the one you run from. / I want you fast enough that I won’t see you. / I want you slow enough that you know I’m coming.

Poetry by Aaron J. Muller

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Sydney

Thirty minutes after takeoff, I realized the old man sitting next to me had died. We hit some turbulence, and his hand fell from the armrest onto my right leg. I waited, expecting the old man to pick his arm back up, but his eyes remained closed, his head stayed cocked back, and the backside of his hand continued to rest on my lap.


Fiction by Cara Albert

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Still

Sam’s hand is palm down in front of my face, the way it always is when we do it in a certain way. I look around, trying to find a place to rest my gaze that isn’t the barren wall ahead or the tangle of clothes on the floor. And so I stare down at his right hand. It is mostly flat and white against the blue sheet, except for the red peaks of his knuckles, which form a crooked line.


Flash Fiction by Joy Bullen

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Not Knowing

For the first couple of weeks, it was mostly about the sex. When you’ve got fifteen years to make up for, and you only get to see other a few times a week, usually just for an hour or two, there’s not much leisure for doing sudoku together.


Fiction by Tom Gartner

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